B01AOKY60K

  And maybe it was El Dorado. Maybe that would be my panacea. And maybe deep down I didn’t want the dream to die in boredom. There wasn’t enough gold. There just wasn’t enough. There were other worlds and other riches just waiting to be discovered, and in the back of my mind I still think that way, and I didn’t care what others thought about it. I was living in the future and I preferred staying there. I was still blind to it.

  Then I looked at the board again, and it seemed to make all the sense in the world. It related. And I finally saw it. I finally saw what it was, and what Soto hinted about for so long. And it was clear as day. This was the end game. And so much was on the line. We simply hadn’t captured the King. We still needed to capture Manco. The Incas hadn’t many pieces left. We had plenty of pieces, and virtually all the time in the world. And although Gonzalo’s strategy was aggressive, it made sense to put a concerted effort to kill Manco as fast as possible. Atahualpa was captured in a gambit. Manco would have to follow suite. And the reward would be the El Dorado he fled to.

  I grew very tired studying the board, but I forced myself to focus. I hadn’t all this time. I was just reacting. I drew my conclusion and noted that reality and the game were one in the same. I estimated what could go wrong. I drew the fact that I could either die in the jungle or return back to Cusco richer than ninety percent of all the men of the world. I was already as rich as I ever possibly thought I could be. In the back of my mind, I knew or, at least, had some confidence that I would return, and foolishly I thought that things would either be exactly the same or somewhat different for the better. Everything mattered. In various points of wishful thinking I still arrived at one conclusion: in the morning, I would fall in line and join Gonzalo. There was no other alternative.

  Then I nodded and drifted and slept on the cold ground. I dreamt again, and I heard myself crying. I saw myself in Cusco, not for my entire life, but a good percentage of it. I saw myself very much still alive, but older and wiser; a man that my younger self could have learned a great deal from. Much like the men I always admired. The dream told me things I already knew. The confirmation that it was all worth it. I was going to die anyway. What was the point of refraining?

  I awoke from the dream and felt the rainfall on my face. The stars were gone and I could feel myself sweating. I turned my head in haste and peered from side to side. Then I heard a noise. It sounded like a howl. I clutched at my chest and it pounded like mad.

  But then the howl switched to laughter.

  It was Soto.

  His voice cried from afar.

  “Stop dreaming, Sardina.”

  The echo blew in the breeze faintly, and when I looked about, I saw that Soto was about fifty yards away. As Soto approached I saw him smile. He laughed again. Then he stopped, dismounted his horse, and walked towards me. Along with him were four Inca servants and two mules that carried his supplies.

  He waited for my stupid questions and he answered them all in direct and concise manner. The difference, this time, was that Soto looked me straight in the eyes when he did so. He wasn’t distracted by something else.

  Though he always made much sense, he didn’t so that day. I made it a point to defend my decision, but the real truth was that I wanted him to join me for another adventure. I wanted him by my side, so I could learn more from him, so I could understand everything, and survive, and appreciate, and share the rewards. But I knew he would never buy my reasoning. The last things I said to him were self-righteous and pathetic, but I held on to the words as if they were my only possession, and neither Soto nor myself convinced each other otherwise.

  “You’re coming too, Soto?”

  “Ha. You’re still stupid after all these years.”

  “So what is it? Where are you heading? Aren’t you joining?”

  “No. I'm leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes, Sardina. Leaving.”

  “Where? To Lima? To Francisco?”

  “No. To Spain. To Badajoz.”

  “I don't understand. You've come too far.”

  “I’ve come for my fortune. I've found it. Now I must leave before I lose it.”

  “But there's more, Soto. There's more! El Dorado.”

  “You haven't played the game long enough, Sardina. One must learn what he has. There are times where you shouldn't take a risk. Even if there's great reward.”

  “But the reward is worth it. That's why you're here! That's why we're all here, isn't it?”

  “I wish you luck. I'm afraid that's about all I can do.”

  “But it's El Dorado! They say it's grander than Cairo. Grander than Cusco! It's near! It's near, Soto.”

  “Only in your mind.”

  “But that's what they've been saying! That's what led us here! That's what led us to Peru. That's what led us out of Spain! What do you see, Soto?”

  “I see my fortune and I’m taking it with me.”

  “Enjoy it then. Enjoy your tiny fortune.”

  “I’ll enjoy my fortune. However tiny it may be. I'll enjoy it alive.”

  Soto mounted up on his horse and headed out. I followed him and pleaded him to stop.

  “Sir? Sir Soto?”

  Then he said his final words then disappeared through the dark. And that was the last I saw of him.

  “You’re a free man, Sardina. Act like one.”

  I still thought it was a dream. But it wasn’t. It was real. It occurred, and now permanently etched into the past, and it wasn’t until I woke up with the sun on my face that I realized that it actually happened. Soto was gone.

  And in the morning, I fell in line and joined with the others. Gonzalo smiled, patted me on the shoulders, and then gave off a lenity of commands, which I fulfilled. And by noon, we were off.

  An hour later we sent forth, and we were off to hunt down Manco. And at the helm of the pursuit was our leader, Gonzalo. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever leave Cusco, but there was an odd feeling that I had; a feeling that I’d never see Cusco ever again in my life. I remembered the wooden gates close and the clanking sounds they made. I never knew that it would be the last time. But it was.

  The most striking image to me was walking and glancing at the “Gold Makers” who were constantly at work, churning out their product. I remembered their dirty happy faces. Digging and scratching. Forging and pressing the hot liquid into chambers. I remembered the sounds: the pangs, the pings, the sizzle, the swishes and foams as the gold filled the brims. It was still beautiful.

  But Cusco was a ghost now. It was as good as dead, and I knew for once that it was the truth. And when the gates closed, I knew I’d never see this part of the dream again.”

  III

  The Incas followed the trail and forged on to the Sacred Valley. As the thousands of Incas concentrated on their walk west, they kept their heads held high and the sun warmed their faces. The Sacred Valley was a mighty vista, but it was more than that. It was a refuge, a safe haven for all Incas, for it stretched out in a lush of rolling green hills and extended far beyond the jungles. Manco’s face was filled with pain, but he led his people convincingly. They believed in Manco, and they put their faith into his presence. They were willing to die for him once more, and they knew in their heart of hearts that beyond the valley they would make their stay.

  They walked for miles at a time; days at a time. They’d walk to the sea if they had to, but internally they knew that the Sacred Valley would be their point of arrival. The Incas challenged themselves to walk further, and as the next day’s walk ended they bided the sun farewell and welcomed the dusk and early night stars. During the night, the Incas sat and watched the sky. Flakes of snow fluttered down and the people smiled. Hundreds of Incas gathered around a circle and let out another cheer. The shaman approached from the shadows and joined them, and each night they began another ceremony. The stars appeared soon after and the Incas watched the snow cap peaks blend with the pale purple light, and beyond it came in view the majestic Machu
Picchu. The peaks. The thin glossy air. It stood there like it always did, and it glowed and greeted them like an old friend.

  Manco spoke to his people each night, and each night he made the same promise. He could tell that his people were still in shock and despair, so he promised that they would build a new Cusco beyond the valley; that they would build a new city; a new home to cherish and defend. They stared at the green moss of the sloping hills, the undulations, the protrusions, the slide down and the enveloping of endless land; the rocks and the melting snow of the flutings, and the terraces that Manco’s people had built centuries ago. The vision swirled but stayed, and it went on forever, and it was all a constant reminder. The promise was repeated, not by just Manco, but also the Inca Royal Court Members. Each citizen in Cusco was informed of the vision. In the valley, they would build a new Cusco. They would build it, and populate it, and make it their own. It would be the Cusco for their children and their children’s children. Inca gods would guide it, and it would be Inca blood that would defend it. They were resolved to keep it and when they reached it, they were resolved to protect it. They would fight battle after battle. They didn’t care how long nor how many lives they would lose, for by then, they would be ready, and they would defend it any way that deemed necessary. It was still a dream. But nonetheless, it was a dream that kept them very much alive.

  The Inca trail widened for more miles. They saw the irrigated waterways. They walked on and inched closer and closer to the peaks. Several weeks passed and at the end of many days, Manco found himself alone. He stared at the peaks for hours at a time. He stared at the snow and the green ridges that bulged out in jagged formations. It was only confirmation but he needed it. He needed it more than any moment in his entire life. He was lost in a trance. He sought the truth. He put all his faith into the mystery. He went beyond lands. He went deep and through.

  Then he opened his eyes and came down.

  “I am Manco Inca.” He whispered and repeated.

  “I am Manco Inca.”

  The shaman approached, and, being a shaman, he didn’t utter a word. He merely patted Manco on the shoulder then disappeared beyond the slopes.

  The next day the Incas reached the wide and holy Amazon River, and they prayed for an entire afternoon. Towards the night, Manco sauntered through the jungle alone. He bled from his hands and he sucked the blood that dripped from his fingers. Then Manco saw a great sight that made him stop. He had seen this sight many times before. Beyond the stream, Manco watched a giant black puma hunt down and devour an elk. It all took less than a minute. The puma chewed its meat with no hesitation. There was not a shred of guilt in the puma’s face, nor uncertainty. There was only joy. But there was something deeper, and Manco felt all of it. It was not only the hunt. It was a prayer said without words. For both the puma and the elk it was in their nature. Life was lived. And that’s all that mattered. As for the elk, he knew that time on this earth would not be long. It never is for the chased. But the elk showed the grace of a temperate and beautiful kind, for minutes before it was quite alive when it gnawed on the grass and foraged. Its eyes were wide, just like its father, just like its mother. And when it ran, it galloped with every fiber of its soul. The elk neither hoped nor dreamed. Nor did the puma. They didn’t think. They merely acted. They merely survived. They merely thrived. And the dance continued. Unabated. Unfazed. He probably saw their dance every day, but it wasn’t until then that Manco understood it for what it was. It wasn’t until then that he knew the entire truth. And when the moment passed, Manco watched and nodded, and noted the power of both beings.

  The next morning, Manco arose and examined the river: the deep and wide Amazon. It was cold and holy. Sacred and forever. Manco walked up to the falling streams and watched the flying fish jump over each other. Then he examined the whole of the river; that happy river that he knew his entire life. Indeed to the Incas, the river was a god itself, and it was one of Manco’s favorite gods. Though he himself admitted that he forgot about it too many times. So much so that he was blind and numb to it. But when Manco saw again, tears ran down his cheek. He breathed in and out. He sensed every inch. Every sound. The hum of the insects and the plops and sumps of the drifting ebbs and flows, and the shrieks and shrills that came from the birds. It was as Manco expected. The same as he remembered: beautiful and in accord. It was still sacred times.

  The heat of the day was stifling but the river kept churning, and Manco kept staring. He felt the entirety of his land and his people as if all swirled into his eye and lingered into his bloodstream and became sacredly entombed into his whole body. On this day, he knew the whole. He spoke to each of his gods, faced them and all their beauty, and they all smiled back at him.

  Then Manco lifted his head and stared into the jungle’s canopy. He stared below. His hands were still. He moved into the river.

  He soaked his feet and moved until the water came up to his waist. Then he dipped his head and submerged his entire body. He held still for an entire minute and became one with the river. He felt each surge and each pulse. He felt the chill, and all that surrounded below, and he closed his eyes and took it all in. When he was ready Manco withdrew his head from the water and gasped for air. He took in deep powerful gorges of breath and clutched on with his heart pounding, but still he drew enough air to breathe again.

  After it was over Manco climbed up to dry land and sat down. His heart was pounding, but his face was clean. He closed his eyes then opened them and repeated in an endless rhythm, as the river rolled and slushed.

  Then Manco closed his eyes. He stayed still and watched the tide for several minutes. Then he closed his eyes again and was caught in another reverie, and in a very long dream, he communicated with Cura. All that needed to be said, he said to her with his eyes. They made love like they always did, and all was whole. They talked again and afterward they sauntered through hills and streams. Manco's love for her was as strong as it ever was, and he knew that if he died, he’d die loving her and that if she died before him it would be exactly the same.

  Then Manco opened his eyes. He turned and saw Titu approach him, and again his son was by his side. What the future held Manco did not know. What the past said to him, he held with reverence, but he knew that it no longer had control of him. He tried to find the right words to express these feelings to Titu, but none came to him. None was needed. He cradled Titu along his shoulder and kissed his forehead. Titu too stared at the river and watched the fish tipple in and out as they followed the streams in one unit. Then beyond the river to the other side of the basin, Titu looked at the lands beyond. Then he looked again up and saw his father smiling down on him, and the wonder and comfort in his eyes made all the difference in the world.

  Then Manco and Titu walked on. They both gave the river a firm nod. Manco then hoisted Titu up on his shoulders and pointed his finger west, beyond the river and further into the valley. And they kept walking.

  Another day came, and as the Incas greeted the sun they cheered. Manco stood with his Incas as the sun rose again, and the Incas cried with their hands outstretched to the skies. They were finally close enough to see Machu Picchu in all its majesty. They stared as the cold air pierced their faces. The sight swirled and stayed, and went on forever.

  “It’s still here. It's still here.” Said Manco.

  “It’s always been here, Manco.” Said Waman Poma. “It will always be here. Like your brother.”

  Waman Poma then pointed off into the distance. Out of the caves, the high priest yelled out. The shaman too walked forward. The Incas cheered again and the air filled with joy. All of the Incas looked up, and Manco blinked several times. He breathed in and breathed out, and although it was a cold Andean dawn, he sweated from his nostrils to his knees. He was astonished at first, but as he moved closer, a wave of relief passed through his countenance. Then he kneeled to the ground.

  A band of a dozen Incas carried a heavy tomb along their shoulders.

  Inside the t
omb was the mummy of Atahualpa. It was wrapped in the finest cloth and woven and blessed with many palms. The corpse was well secure and Atahualpa’s distinct scent was present as well. Manco cried and touched the corpse with the palm of his hand. The sun warmed his face. He didn’t hear Atahualpa’s voice, rather he felt him flowing through his blood, and after he was united with brother forever.

  Then Manco raised his head and prayed to the sun.

  “I know you’re here. “Manco repeated. “I know you’re here.”

  Then Manco looked up and saw his people gather around the tomb. They touched the tomb and led out their cries, but afterward, they smiled through their tears, and Manco too smiled. And like that, the Incas could feel again. The sun faded and a cold breeze blew in, but they warmed their way through.